


Sweater Weather is Overrated Anyway

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Because This Episode Was Fantastic, Coda, Episode: s12e10 Lily Sunder Has Some Regrets, John Winchester mention - Freeform, Love Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-02-06
Packaged: 2018-09-22 11:36:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9606053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: He doesn’t have a good excuse. It is, in fact, Dean’s sweater, so it holds Dean’s musky smell, which eases him on top of it.  Initially, he wanted to try something new. The trenchcoat can only bring him so much comfort at the end of the day. True, it reminds him of the sacrifice and the persistence and the drive—and not just metaphorically, the drive that carried his coat in the trunk of the Impala for months because Dean wouldn’t give up on him. But it also reminds him of all the carnage and the stubbornness and the mistakes…Mistakes he can’t come back from. Certainly not after “cosmic consequences” is thrown in the mix.





	

Sweater Weather is Overrated Anyway

_Inspired by a prompt from onetruepairingideas.tumblr.com:_

_Sparkingstoryinspiration: **An apple, a sweater, a tube of lipstick that is not what it seems**_

"Lipstick?"

"Don't worry; I got your color,” Dean clarifies, as if that answers everything.

"Dean, I don't—”

"Pop the cap off and twist it.” Dean drops his head and raises his eyebrow. "Don't you trust your best friend?”

Cas eyes Dean warily as he responds, “On a good day.”

“Thanks for tha—wait, is that my sweater?”

Spilling halfway over his palm is the hem of the collared sweater Cas is donning. It’s nothing extravagant. If anything, it’s an imitation of his trenchcoat, being it so large and beige, though it’s much lighter and softer. “I, um…”

He doesn’t have a good excuse. It is, in fact, Dean’s sweater, so it holds Dean’s musky smell, which eases him on top of it.  Initially, he wanted to try something new. The trenchcoat can only bring him so much comfort at the end of the day. True, it reminds him of the sacrifice and the persistence and the drive—and not just metaphorically, the drive that carried his coat in the trunk of the Impala for months because Dean wouldn’t give up on him. But it also reminds him of all the carnage and the stubbornness and the mistakes…

Mistakes he can’t come back from. Certainly not after “cosmic consequences” is thrown in the mix.

In a naturistic setting, simpler times, Dean is the water further ahead that hardly rests until he splashes the shore wildly and unpredictably.

He always looks to Cas like he’s the lighthouse, helping him guide ships to shore.

Cas is too rigid to be a lighthouse.

Cas humors Dean with what little time they have until the world falls apart again. Narrowing his eyes, he twists the bottom of the tube, and instead of lipstick revealing itself—"A knife?"

"A switchblade, to be exact,” Dean comments, a small smirk tilting his mouth, "I made it myself."

"Where did you get lipstick?"

Dean’s smirk smooths out as he shifts a little in his stance. "Do you like it?"

"Well... I mean, it's fine craftsmanship,”—and it is, it even has Castiel’s initials carved expertly into the side: _C.W._ —“but I do have an angel blade, you know."

"Well yeah, it's just something to have handy,” Dean explains before offering: "They make good apple slicers."

"Why would I eat an apple?"

"You know what they say," says Dean, scratching his neck, “an apple a day keeps the Rit Zien away?"

Cas has to laugh, even just the slightest, as he says, "I appreciate the sentiment, Dean."

"Why do I sense a 'but' coming soon?"

"No 'but',” Cas corrects, “just a 'what'."

"What?"

“No, from _me_ ,” Cas laughs quietly. “It’s just… what's the occasion?"

Dean’s mouth drops. Even though speechless, Cas can feel his soul, heavy and tired from toting his emotions around like a bindle all these years.

"Does there need to be one?” he asks. “You're family, man. I've said it once and I'll say it until the words make home in your head: _You_ are family. And as family, as a Winchester, you have to have your own homemade switchblade. That's right up there next to putting unnecessary wear-and-tear on a classic car and stuffing your face with all the greasy fast food you can afford on a gambler's salary."

"Those are all human things."

Cas cringes after the words slip out from underneath him. Hannah said the same thing to him driving back from the campsite. It wasn’t her fault. Hannah only knew how she was taught, just like Cas. But Cas has had time to evolve, to grow into someone who empathizes, who feels—a little too much, depending who you ask.

"Food, money... your much _slower_ transportation system, I've done all of it. I've scabbed myself scooping so low when I was human and I just—” No one cuts Cas off but himself. He sits on the edge of his bed, keeping his head and his voice low: "You and Sam are much better at it than I am."

"Well, that’s not really a fair assessment, since we've had well over thirty years of practice,” Dean responds as the bed dips next to Cas.

Cas nods. "Which I assume makes perfect."

He hears Dean scoff, "Not at all. I mean, have you _seen_ us? Hell, man, aside from breaking the world a few times, do you know how long it took me to forgive my dad?"

"Your father, you've mentioned him once,” Cas says softly, careful not to startle Dean as he looks up at him. “Back in Pontiac, in the bar. You recalled him fondly."

Dean runs his right hand over his thigh—a sign of self-comfort. "Yeah, well, at one point, it physically hurt to talk about him in _any_ context."

"How did you do it?"

"I stopped looking in the mirror." Dean pauses to laugh, though there’s no humor in it: "Of course, that didn't last long when Sammy and I worked that Bloody Mary case back in '05." Dean shrugs. “I don’t know. It was easier to hate the guy, but it wasn’t doing me any good—especially since not _all_ of my childhood was ghouls and gremlins, you know? We have some good memories. And he’s still my dad. He still gave up his life for me when it came down to it. And I was ready to give mine for his.”

Dean looks at Cas as he says the last part, but Cas doesn’t meet his eyes. Not yet. "I'll never be human, Dean."

Dean shifts on the bed. "Cas, you don't have to—"

"Let me finish,” Cas presses. Now he meets Dean’s eyes. Dean’s reflect concern—no, they _swim_ in it. "I'll never be human, Dean. But I'll always love you as one."

“Cas—”

“Dean, please, I don’t need—”

“Cas, buddy,” Dean says with a small laugh, “I was gonna say you don’t have to explain yourself. For the record, I uh…” Dean’s hand moves from Cas’s shoulder to his balled hand. All the tension resting there slips upon contact with Dean’s fingers, which start to weave through Cas’s in a perfect crosshatch. “I love you too.”

Cas blinks a few times, fast and in sync with his heart. “You—?”

“Yeah,” Dean confirms with a blush before he scrunches his face, “but that sweater has to go.”

“It’s _your_ sweater, Dean.”

“No, it’s Dr. MacGowan’s.”

Cas scoffs, but breathes— _finally_ , “Ah yes, one of your many brilliantly-named aliases.”

“It’s better than _Agent Beyoncé,”_ Dean sasses, though can’t keep the smile out of the words.

Cas hums and shakes his head before dropping it in the crook of Dean’s neck. “What’re we going to do?”

“I don’t know,” Dean responds, squeezing their intertwined hands and laughing dryly, “I really don’t know.”

At that, Cas can’t help but think how even a lighthouse with its light slowly dimming brings back the boats.

And the water, as wild and unpredictable as it may be, will always come back to shore.


End file.
